


Girl

by iamisaac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3608865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people’s language is words; Fenrir’s is violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girl

“Do you love me?”

She has the answers by rote now: like religious utterings, the responses fall from her mouth.

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you want me?”

Once, the very thought would bring her close to vomiting. Now she feels nothing.

“Yes, Master.”

Where did Hermione go? Where did that strong, opinionated, clever girl hide herself? She always did know all the right answers, and this girl does too, but that is the only similarity between them. These lessons were not ones she chose to learn. Rather, they were beaten, starved, assaulted out of her. She likes that she doesn’t now care – in as much as she likes anything.

“Good girl,” Fenrir whispers, in the scratchy voice which matches his scratchy, straggly appearance. He pushes her robes down over her shoulders, the black cotton matching black bruises on her neck and breasts.

It took a long time for the girl to realise that he hit her not because of something she did or didn’t do, but because he liked it. Most people’s language is words; Fenrir’s is violence.

"Such a pretty thing," he croons, running dirty-nailed fingers through her tangled hair. When he encounters a knot, he tugs: by the time he moves his hand elsewhere, a multitude of brown strands cling to his fingers. The girl waits, patiently, for his next move. Her robes are held together with thread more than material these days, from all the time he’s ripped them off her. The first time that he gave her needle and thread to mend them, she wrapped the thread around her throat, tighter and tighter, trying to kill herself. She’d looked up to find him watching her, hand caressing his swiftly hardening cock as she tried for the only escape she knew was left to her. She doesn’t know, still, whether it was the self-inflicted pain or the futility of her gesture which turned him on most; when she lay gasping and crying on the floor at last, alive despite her every attempt at oblivion, he made his move, standing over her and stroking himself to orgasm so that she was left, finally, covered in semen and despair.

She doesn’t despair now; she doesn’t know how. She has found a different oblivion. He bites her right breast roughly, pushing her robes to the ground and thrusting one of his legs between her two, rubbing himself against her.

“Baby’s hot for it, ain’t you, girl?”

“Yes, Master,” she parrots again.

“Beg me, then.” He shoves her to the floor, where she gets on hands and knees – a practice as familiar now as blinking.

“Please, fuck me.” The voice is toneless: she could be asking the time or for a biscuit.

“Spread your legs for me.”

He kneels behind her and thrusts inside. Sometimes she is wet from female blood; mostly she is dry. Today is a dry day. Fenrir never comments either way. His fucking is brutal, of course: animalistic. It would be, for that is what he is. He always takes her from behind, as if she were his bitch. Perhaps she is. The girl takes a moment to remember Hermione, that strange character who is almost fairytale-esque now. She remembers how furious Hermione was about the treatment of werewolves as non-human. Silly little thing, Hermione had been. The girl knows better now: the Big Bad Wolf is real, and not like any human on earth. 

She had expected him to turn her but she has come to realise how much he enjoys her vulnerability, her human frailty which makes her so utterly at his mercy. Turned, the wolf’s strength would be hers, too. This way, Fenrir has all the power. He enjoys that.

Except that he doesn’t have power, not now. (He pumps in and out of her. She holds patiently still. It is uncomfortable, but no worse than that.) He has no power to hurt her because the girl has nothing for him to hurt. Her body isn’t hers, just a shell. Her mind is calm, blank, indifferent: she is unable to feel emotion even were she to want to. But it doesn’t matter because she has no wish to feel.

Fenrir comes with a loud howl, filling her with his seed, digging his fingernails into her bare shoulders. She may see the crescent moons the nails will have left in her skin – if she bothers to look.

“You liked that, baby, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

He pulls out and sits beside her on the floor, running clumsy hands over her breasts. The time was, she’d hated this rough gesture of affection more than his forced penetration. Now there is no difference - when he speaks, she makes the required responses in a dead voice, but otherwise she offers nothing, neither good nor bad. She does not seek his touch, nor does she flinch from it.

At last, he leaves – and the girl who was once Hermione does not care about that, either.


End file.
